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by CadomirBane



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Cutting, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadomirBane/pseuds/CadomirBane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bane returns to an old habit that finds it way back after the Mind Trick ordeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> (Warning: this story is about self harm and includes some references and descriptions that may be triggering. I'm not promoting self harm in any way.)

.

_It's a comfort that kills you_

_It's a love song that ails you_

_Don't pretend to hate it_

_Just pretend to fake it_

_You can hide the tears_

_But you can't hide the scars_

.

The first time had been the simplest.

It started with only three things. One: a night out drinking with two friends who showed him how to sneak into the cantina with a fake ID. Two: a small knife he had stolen some weeks ago. And three: a passing word that refused to leave his head.

Words were the hardest to forget for Cadomir Bane. When he told his friends he wanted to be a bounty hunter when he grew up, the response "You'll never be smart enough to do something like that" seemed to stick. When he told them what happened on the last star system he had hitchhiked to, the words "It couldn't have been that bad" played over and over mentally. Like a song with lyrics one hated but a tune one could not stop dancing to.

Trouble was, Bane did not know how to dance. But the stolen knife knew how to. Its young blue dance floor crisscrossed with beaded drops of green that night in the cantina bathroom stall, where comm numbers and dirty poems were written all over the walls. When he realized he had been gone almost long enough to arouse suspicion, Cadomir Bane pulled down his sleeves and hid the knife in his back pocket. Under his breath, he swore he would never do that again.

Three weeks later, he hit a low and let the knife dance up his other arm, twice as bad this time. He hated how it felt so welcoming, so attractive. Like anyone would understand that. It probably made him a freak to think that hurting himself and seeing his own blood would calm his nerves so easily.

Luckily, being a cold-blooded reptile, one had to generally stay covered up with clothing that preserved warmth. Even Bane tended to wear less clothing than he should anyway, just for the hell of it. Because he could and it was fun to take the risks. But when he began sticking to the long-sleeved shirts and jackets, with the excuse that he needed to for his own health, there was little protest. Save for only one girl who none of Bane's friends listened to much anyway. Thank the stars. None of them understood this side of him.

It never became a full-on habit. From Bane's perspective, anyway. But every time the numbness hit, every time someone said something that made him tick bad enough, every time the stress pounded down…he took it out on himself. When the pale blue lines filled up both sides of both arms, he started on his legs for a while. He was becoming quite a mess of a canvas, he mused one night, after he had 'borrowed' his Human girlfriend's razor blade while she was out working.

Why bother not to. Everyone was already a mess in the end. It was not a matter of who was the least messed up, but a matter of who hid it the best. And as it turned out, Cadomir Bane was not the type of person to hide his mess real well.

Or so he thought at that age.

.

The night he made his first kill as a bounty hunter was the hardest. Nothing could stop the shaking, crying, constantly talking over his own voice. None of his friends nor favorite drinks provided comfort. Not even the reward money from killing the target made him feel better, as he had hoped for. So with no other choice, Bane decided to punish himself for what he had done, rectify the blood on his hands. It was a never-ending night.

He had flinched pulling the trigger, flinched when he had to shoot again to make sure the target was dead. But within a few years, Bane would have already forgotten how to so much as blink an eye at the kill.

Then when it was morning again, Cadomir Bane found the strength to get dressed and keep walking like it had never happened. At least that part got easier every time. Nobody was ever going to know about his self harm. Nobody was going to know that it was not an accident from fixing his speeder, not from getting hurt on the job. Every bit of it had to stay secret.

When it came to having sex, however, Bane had to get creative. Find excuses to keep his jacket on, say the room was too cold and he would be better at it if he could stay warm. When that couldn't work, keeping the lights off usually did the trick. Those few times it was impossible to hide the scars, Bane found himself either coming up with another elaborate lie that always involved a creature with claws, or he threatened or bargained with his partner so they wouldn't tell anyone. So far, it seemed his secret was safe.

.

Months, then years, went on in this way. He thought he was finally done with it for good. He would never be able to forget because the scars were always there, but at least it could stay in the past. A part of him that was locked away.

Then it happened again.

He woke up from a dream in which he thought the Jedi were using the Mind Trick on him again. He could still feel the Force clawing like cold fingers into his thoughts and memories. It had only happened a few days ago, but Bane had not forgotten it. How could he? He had lost his own mind ever since and could not seem to find it again, wherever it had taken off to.

It felt silly, how easily he slipped back into that old habit. But as the nightmare echoed over and over until he felt unsafe and used in his own head, Bane found only one way to come back to reality. By then, the knife he had hidden for so long was covered in rust, the edges jagged and filthy. Bad idea in retrospect. As if he cared.

The wound on his left arm was still healing from the laser bolt that had grazed it back on Devaron. He tore off the bacta strip and reopened it. It hurt like hell. But it was nothing compared to having his own thoughts played it, and more importantly, it was real.

The habit came to him like an old friend. The dance he used to flirt with almost every night as a teenager.

When he relapsed, the habit was ready to welcome him back as it always did before, always there, never truly gone for good. At least, Bane mused, that meant he would never be alone.


End file.
